The hour was late. At the Heron’s Blessing, the raucous laughter of miners and ranchers, which had echoed through the streets of Othilia since twilight, was fading.

  The crowd had thinned. Weary ranchers muttered farewells, shuffling out with newspapers held high against the rain. A few proprietors lingered, nursing drinks and half-hearted conversations, their thoughts already drifting toward tomorrow’s work. Miners remained, slouched and spent. At sunrise, they had descended into the earth; at sunset, they had emerged. Now in their shared fatigue, a fleeting camaraderie endured.

  The pulsing beats of the jukebox had given way to soft melodies. The lively dancing was gone, replaced by the stillness of chairs creaking under the weight of those too tired to rise. Like a travelling trouper who rolls into town, conjures mirth, then packs up his wagon and moves on, so too had the evening’s revelry departed. What remained was a melancholy that hung in the room as thick as fog.

  The bartender was carrying dirty plates in one hand, and long stacks of glasses in the other, like a soldier balancing a spear on their shoulder. She worked with a clatter that blended with the murmurs of the room.

  With the certainty of a farmer reading the sky for rain, she knew that it would be at least another hour before her patrons dispersed. For although the talk dwindled, at a table by the jukebox, five men were glued to a game of cards. Coins clinked, notes passed: none would leave until their fortunes were decided.

  In the far corner, where a dead bloofire globe left only shadow, sat a solitary figure. Jane had told herself umpteenth times to install a kerosene lamp, but the corner remained dark—a pocket of shadow where the man seemed to dissolve.

  He was a miner; his arms and legs bore the patina of dirt and dust that comes from working in the tunnels under Othilia. His wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over a face smeared with grime. He hunched low over the table, so close that his hat nearly brushed the peeling varnish.

  He had arrived with the rest. While others moved in groups, sharing laughter or lament, he came alone—silent, unassuming. In three hours, he hadn’t ordered a drink. He remained outside the rowdiness of the evening. His pie with mashed potato and peas was scarcely touched, the steam long vanished.

  Jane’s gaze lingered. Something in his stillness, in his isolation, prickled at her instincts.

  She watched as the miner slipped a hand into his jacket. When it emerged, he hunched further, concealing whatever he now held beneath his hat.

  Then it came. Acrid. Sharp. Sickly sweet. Jane flinched. It was faint but potent—like a whiff of dread. Cinnamon. No—something darker, laced with rot. It stirred a memory. A shadow of a memory. But she couldn’t grasp it. Then, like a burnt scrap carried off in the wind, the scent vanished. The memory with it.

  “Jane! Another round, gorgeous!”

  The sudden shout jolted her awake. She snapped her gaze toward the card table.

  She arched a brow. “If you’re tipping in buttons, Matthew, save your compliments for the whores. They might cost less than I do.”

  A roar of laughter rose from the miners. Fists pummelled Matthew’s arms, and heavy hands slapped his back. His face flushed red.

  Jane shook her head, lips curling into a faint smile. She returned to the bar, deposited the dirty glasses, poured the next round, and balanced the tray with ease. She handed them out, ignoring the grins and Mathew’s exaggerated gestures of apology, then moved to wipe another table.

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  But her thoughts remained with the lonely miner.

  She stole glances. He hadn’t moved. Like a statue frozen by the hand that had carved it, the miner remained veiled in the shadows.

  She came to his table, wiping slowly around his untouched food. Her movements were slow and deliberate, so as not to startle him. She searched for a glimpse beneath the brim.

  “Sir, are you finished with your meal?” she asked softly.

  No response. No flicker of acknowledgement.

  Against her own judgement, she leaned closer. Her eyes narrowed. Lines of exhaustion marred his face. Beneath the grime, his skin was pale—almost grey. The whites of his eyes were laced with red fissures.

  Her first thought was the soul rot.

  But why the stench of cinnamon?

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  She reached out, touched his shoulder.

  A roar equipped behind her—victory from the card table. The miner recoiled violently. His hand struck the plate, which bounced, spilling peas.

  Startled, Jane stepped back, heart racing.

  “You’re a snake, Timothy Stanhope! I saw you pull that Queen from your sleeve!”

  “You played a shit hand, Bill. Mine was better. Swallow it.”

  “Pig’s ass! You saw it too, right Jack?”

  “Jack ain’t seeing anything—he’s sloshed.”

  “Dammit! This ain’t fuckin’ fair!”

  Bill slammed the table and lunged at Stanhope’s throat.

  The bartender sighed, accustomed to such theatrics. She caught Bill’s arm and wrenched him back.

  “We’re done here, gentlemen. You raise a fist in my bar—that’s your business. But you take it outside.”

  “Sit your ass down, Bill.”

  Bill was flustered. He hesitated.

  “Luck is like the wind,” the bartender said, gripping Bill’s shoulders and forcing him back into his chair. “It comes and it goes. Play nice like your mothers taught you, or I’ll call for the Guardians.”

  Everyone knew Jane Silver’s reputation. Behind the bar was a green button—a direct line to Guardian Force. One press and the alarm would sound at their office. One warning was all she ever gave. At the next offence, true to her word, she always pressed the button.

  The table settled. The game resumed, albeit with muttered curses and wary glances. The bartender hovered for a time, ensuring the tension had dissipated.

  Boots scuffed the floor. Jane turned—just in time to see the miner bolt. Hat low, he plunged into the rain. The door slammed.

  Strange relief washed over her. Jane Silver was not prone to unease. She couldn’t say why the lonely miner had disturbed her. She had spent a lifetime among drunks and hooligans (her earliest memories were following her father around the Heron’s Blessing). Too many times to count she had dragged unconscious men to bed. But this one was different. She was glad to see him gone.

  She returned to his table. Moved the plate. Bent to wipe the surface.

  And there it was again—that acrid stench. Not quite cinnamon. Darker. A whisper of Underland.

  The memory surfaced, sharper now. She was a child, carrying blankets into one of the Heron’s rooms. A man lay on the floor—limbs twisted, vomit thick on the rug. Unmoving.

  The same stench. The one from tonight. The one from the miner’s pocket.

  Then the scent faded. But the memory stayed.

  “Strife,” she whispered.

  The rain tapped at the windows. The card players laughed behind her. Jane remained unnerved for the rest of the night.

  Poison was her trade. But strife—strife was brewed in death’s own crucible.

  Coming up in Chapter 5…

  A brother bound by blood and memory.

  And a lead that could unravel everything.

  Chapter 5: The Two Brothers

  Coming next Thursday.